The masked figure stood motionless, half-shadowed beneath the afternoon sun. His obsidian cloak rustled faintly in the breeze, face hidden behind a simple porcelain mask painted with a crimson fang. Black hair tied loosely fluttered just below the nape of his neck, and in his right hand, held low but with unmistakable control, was a polished bō staff.
Arata Kamizuki's breath fogged for just a moment despite the warmth of the day.
He didn't know who this figure was. But he knew one thing for certain.
This was no ordinary ambush.
"Formation Delta!" he barked again, this time giving his squad members clarity in the situation something the masked figure noted.
His team snapped into action, adrenaline burning away their earlier weariness. Yuki flanked right, water chakra nature spiralling around her palms. Aisuke dropped low into a crouch, drawing twin trench knives from behind his belt. The fourth, Minoru, a wiry sensor-type, moved behind cover, hands already moving in quick seals for an earth-style trap.
There was no hesitation, no confusion—Arata had drilled them endlessly for scenarios like this.
Especially for an enemy like this.
Because this enemy had the Sharingan. Something this squad had always prepared for.
Three tomoe spun lazily to life behind the eye slits of the mask, and Arata's heart clenched.
'What the hell is going on?'
A rogue Uchiha? An infiltrator mimicking them? A test?
But the figure made no move to answer the questions swirling in Arata's mind. Instead, he flicked his wrist—and the bō staff blurred in a half-moon arc.
"Crack!"
The weapon collided with Yuki's water spear mid-flight, dissipating it into vapour with a single blow. The masked figure dashed forward without pause, weaving through Aisuke's counter-strike like smoke and hammering his shoulder with the butt of the staff. Aisuke flew back, rolling across the training field with a groan.
"Minoru—support him!" Arata snapped.
Minoru activated his trap, and the ground beneath the attacker crumbled into a pit lined with jagged earth pillars.
"Boom!"
But the figure didn't fall. His form shimmered, then split—he had already used a substitution.
A glint of red eyes reappeared behind Arata.
"Clang!"
Arata barely raised his kunai in time to block a staff strike aimed at his ribs. The force still knocked him back, his boots skidding across stone.
He grimaced, sweat beginning to collect beneath his collar.
The masked figure hadn't used a single jutsu. No hand signs. No elemental attacks. Just raw speed, a weapon, and those damned eyes that read their movements like they were children playing tag.
And the Sharingan…
No. It wasn't an enemy from another village.
This had to be a test.
One designed to make them fail.
Arata spat blood, wiped his mouth, and flicked his kunai forward.
"Keep pressure! He's just one guy! Minoru—flank right and keep chakra suppressors ready. Yuki—target his blind side. Aim for his legs!"
But the orders felt hollow even as he gave them. The masked figure let them move. He didn't counter immediately, didn't retreat. He simply watched, analyzing them, letting them think they had a chance.
This wasn't a battle.
It was an examination.
Across the village training grounds, other squads experienced the same disruption of their training sessions.
A squad led by Uchiha Shoda had just begun sparring drills when the trees split open with a gust of leaves, and a figure dropped into the middle of their circle.
His mask was the same: blank porcelain with a single vertical slash over the eye. He held a bō staff—an unusual weapon, even within Konoha.
"What the hell—who is that?" one genin exclaimed, activating their one tomoe Sharingan.
Shoda's eyes narrowed.
The masked figure's chakra was muted—deliberately restrained—but his movements were elegant, like a blade hidden in silk. When he lunged, it wasn't with killing intent but calculated restraint.
"Wham!"
A genin crumpled to the ground as the staff cracked his ankle mid-dash.
"Formation B!" Shoda barked, drawing his own tanto blade.
As his squad scattered to surround the figure, Shoda ducked a spinning sweep from the staff and retaliated with a burst of fire style—Katon: Hōsenka no Jutsu!—forcing the attacker back.
But as the embers cleared, Shoda froze.
The stance. The rhythm. The weapon.
'That bō... only three people in the village wield one like that.'
His eyes widened in realization. "Squad Leader…?"
The masked figure said nothing as Shoda's own squad members were left confused hearing their squad leader refer to the masked man as Squad leader. They even wondered if he was under some sort of Genjutsu. The masked figure simply advanced again, staff humming as chakra pulsed through it.
Meanwhile, another training ground lay under the sway of Uchiha Akira. Her team had been drilling genjutsu counters when the masked figure arrived—dropped into their midst without a sound, sending the chakra sensors into a flurry of false alerts.
Three of her squad attacked immediately. Lightning release. Shuriken bombardment. A clever trap with exploding tags.
All were avoided with effortless staff deflections and graceful sidesteps.
"Crack!" "Crack!" "Whoosh!"
When the dust settled, the figure remained untouched—breathing slow and unhurried.
Akira stepped forward, brushing soot from her shoulder. Her crimson eyes gleamed behind long bangs, and a slow smile touched her lips.
"Even if you missed me, squad leader," she said aloud, voice cool and amused, "this is quite the greeting."
The masked figure remained silent, though the slight tilt of his head almost felt like a smirk.
Akira moved first.
Their clash rang across the field. Blade against staff. Sharingan against Sharingan.
Her strikes were sharp and economical, each feint honed through years of ANBU drills. But he was faster. Not in a flashy way—just efficient. His staff always met her blade a moment before impact. Redirecting. Parrying. Deflecting, but never striking to injure.
"Why the silence?" she demanded mid-duel. "Too proud to speak?"
Still no answer.
She ducked a low sweep and countered with a palm thrust, only for him to vanish again into a flicker of motion.
Akira straightened slowly, breathing heavily.
"Definitely Renjiro," she muttered. "Only he'd test us like this and call it training."
Back in Arata's field, the sun had begun its slow descent, casting long shadows across the training grounds.
Aisuke lay unconscious on the ground. Yuki knelt beside him, breath ragged. Minoru was still upright, but only barely, chakra reserves flickering like a candle on its last breath.
Arata stood alone now, his flak jacket torn and streaked with dust and sweat. His shoulder ached. His right leg had gone numb from a nerve strike.
But he still held his ground.
The masked figure stood across from him, undisturbed, staff resting diagonally across his back.
Arata spat into the dirt, his voice rough.
"So what now? Gonna lecture me? Tell me how badly I failed?"
The figure didn't speak. Instead, he took a single step forward, then flicked the end of his staff toward the downed team.
"Minoru's a sensor. Good reflexes, but poor movement under pressure. His attention shifts too easily—distract him once, and he's done."
Arata flinched.
"Yuki favours offence, but her defences are chakra-inefficient. She should invest in a reaction-based taijutsu style to cover close gaps. Right now, she overextends. Too eager to prove herself."
"And Aisuke…" The figure turned slightly, gaze lingering on the unconscious boy. "Brash. Fast hands, but no instinct. He needs guidance—mentorship—or he'll never make Chūnin."
Arata stared.
The figure's voice—measured and neutral—was the first sound he had made since the battle began. It echoed in the quiet field like an unwelcome truth.
"And you, Captain Kamizuki," the masked figure said finally, voice lowering, "you're too reactive. You plan like a tactician but hesitate like a bureaucrat. In a real war, that gets your team killed."
Arata's mouth opened, but he had nothing to say.
Because it was true.
The masked figure turned.
"You have promise. Don't waste it being bitter."
And with that, he vanished in a flicker of movement.
No smoke. No flashy jutsu. Just speed.
Gone.
Arata stood in the middle of the field, silence stretching around him. The breeze rustled the trees again, and the sun finally dipped past the edge of the horizon, bathing the training ground in gold.
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